


Patience, Precision and Love

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-01
Updated: 2004-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-15 13:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14790989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Every time her mother ironed she would tell Donna that ironing was about precision, patience and love.





	Patience, Precision and Love

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Patience, Precision and Love**

**by:** Ygrawn

**Character(s):** Donna  
**Category(s):** Romance  
**Pairing(s):** Josh/Donna  
**Rating:** Oh, I don’t know. PG-13, I guess.  
**Summary:** Every time her mother ironed she would tell Donna that ironing was about precision, patience and love.  
**Author's Note:** Okay, it’s been a while between drinks. Sorry. Enjoy.  


Her mother told her to be patient. Her mother taught her how to remove wax stains from a tablecloth. (Brown paper and an iron.) Her mother watched daytime soaps but only allowed her children to watch PBS. Her mother always redid her lipstick and tided her hair before their father got home, and Donna grew up in the ’80’s.

Donna doesn’t recall ever seeing her mother in jeans or pyjamas. Nerida Moss wore nightgowns with lace and floral embroidery on the collar, hem and cuffs. She wore stockings and low-heeled black court shoes when she went to the supermarket. She wore twin-sets and shell-combs in her hair. Her skirts and dresses were always long and her shirts were high-necked. She rarely wore her hair out.

The other men in the neighbourhood were attracted to her mother, although Donna didn’t understand their glances, their willingness to help around the house and garden and their flirtatious comments until she was much older. 

Nerida had olive skin, shiny black hair and a full, round body. Her slight Italian accent made her English more mysterious \- more glamorous. Where other women relaxed their vowels and shortened their R’s, Nerida lifted and rolled consonants around her tongue. She melted vowels against her teeth. The rhythm of her sentences was musical, lyrical. Donna’s mother caressed words, soothed and softened even harsh and unbending words.

Donna looked like her father, but her mother told her that was a good thing. Donna looked like an American; she looked like the cheerleaders that Nerida desperately wanted her daughters to be. She was skinny and long-legged, blonde and pale-skinned, neither glamorous nor mysterious. Her mother seemed relieved about that. Nerida seemed somehow pleased that Donna’s skin burnt easily and her hair was so fine.

But when Nerida brushed her sister Lucy’s thick, black hair, she would hum under breath, and say, "Just like your Nonna’s hair."

When Donna was seven, she broke her great-grandmother’s crystal vase and her mother screamed at her in Italian. Nerida’s anger seemed to come not just from Donna’s carelessness but also the fact that her daughter didn’t understand a word she was saying.

Her mother had a mobile mouth and nimble fingers and she could sew or knit anything. Her earrings were small, delicate, subtle. Her voice could be loud and commanding. She was obsessively neat. She made her daughters do their homework the minute they got home from school. Nerida fought with them about the clothes they wore, the way they talked, the boys they liked, the way they stood and sat, their friends and after-school activities, and even the way they held their forks at the dinner table.

Nerida read the newspaper from cover-to-cover every day, and when asked, could offer opinions about a range of international and domestic issues. It took Donna a long time to realize that her mother was rarely asked.

She cooked the same food as everybody else’s mothers, but in July, when the house sweltered, when the kitchen throbbed with heat, Nerida cooked cannelloni, lasagne, matriciana, puttanesca, wafer-thin carpaccio, spiced zucchini, charcoal-grilled bistecca, biscotti, and lemon zabaglione. She made pasta by hand, turning up the ends of the tortellini with the flick of her wrist. She could edge her ravioli without looking. She made beetroot agnoletti and tortuously twisted pandardelle. She canned tomatoes and stuffed eggplants.

People in the neighbourhood would appear at the back door with their noses in the air, drawn by the aroma of garlic and frying onions. They would sit at the Moss’ kitchen table and eat whatever Nerida served them. They stayed for second servings, even thirds. Other mothers, children Donna went to school with, their neighbours’ grandmothers and cousins, and Robert Mazio, the head chef at the classiest Italian restaurant in Wisconsin, all wandered into the kitchen with expectation in their eyes. Even Mr. Whippy - a rotund, cheerful man who lived around the corner - would lock up his van and sit with them in the cooling afternoon, devouring Nerida’s gelato.

People knew not to come at any time but July, and Donna remembers feeling proud when she saw all those friends and neighbours sitting at the table eating her mother’s food. She remembers the satisfaction on her mother’s face.

Nerida sang as she cooked. She never used a recipe book in July; she never measured any of the ingredients but cooked from memory, from love. The heat that drove everybody else into pools, under sprinklers and beneath trees, seemed to call forth an ancient Goddess in Nerida. Instead of sweating, she shone. Her hair didn’t frizz, it curled, and loose strands framed her face and trailed down her neck. Her skin shone. Nerida’s lips grew redder, her eyes darker, and her hands seemed more powerful. The worn tiles in front of the stove became her dais, and even now when Donna thinks about those summers she gets shivers near her elbows.

Donna was twelve when her oldest sister, Ebony, had an art project involving a still-life study. She doesn’t recall the details of the project, but she does remember watching her mother draw a sketch of their fruit bowl with quick, easy, bold strokes. Nerida’s pencil created shade and shape as naturally as sunlight. Ebony looked on, pleased that someone else was doing her work. Lucy was rifling through the fridge for something to eat and begging Nerida for a new denim skirt.

Only Donna was amazed. She realized that at some point, her mother may have thought about being an artist, a designer, a painter. She must have dreamt of things other than marriage and children, something different than a life of car pooling and volunteering at the school cafeteria. Something more than the too-small identikit house that she kept spotless.

Donna did - she dreamt of much more - and believed she would have it. Like most daughters, she was determined not to be her mother. Donna would not settle, would not compromise her own career, and would never let anybody silence her voice or stifle her dreams. Which makes the Dr. Freeride years all the more ridiculous and shameful.

 

Her mother could quote passages from the Bible and whenever they said the Our Father in church the rest of the congregation said ‘trespasses’ but Nerida said ‘sins’. When Donna asked her mother about it Nerida quickly said that she had been raised a Catholic and began a discussion about the television their neighbours had recently purchased.

Of course, Donna realized, fifteen years later, in a French lecture at college: Nerida had changed religions when she’d married George Moss.

Her mother always smelt like talcum powder and lavender, and when she sat she kept her back perfectly straight. Her handwriting was small and unobtrusive. She had a strange fear of telephones and whenever it rang she would wait until her husband or Donna, Lucy or Ebony picked it up. Her sentences were short and subdued when she spoke on the phone. The first time Donna called her mother from a cell phone Nerida talked in monosyllables.

Because she was the youngest, there is a period of time Donna can remember being alone with her mother during the day. Lucy and Ebony were at school, but Donna’s life still revolved around the furniture being too tall and the most interesting objects being hidden from her. She helped her mother clean the house, cook dinner and do the laundry. She went shopping with Nerida and saw how her mother tested the ripeness of the fruit. Donna now smells mangoes, squeezes avocados and waits for the last of the season’s apricots. Those are methods that can be learnt, but are better taught

Donna watched her mother ironing her father’s shirts after lunch. Every time Nerida ironed she would tell Donna ironing was about precision, patience and love. You needed precision and patience to deal with cuffs and collars, plackets and pleats - Donna could see that. She didn’t understand why you needed love. 

When Donna was four, Ebony came home from with chicken pox, speckled, miserable and grumpy. Nerida had been too busy applying calamine lotion to iron her husband’s shirts. When he came home George Moss yelled at Nerida loud enough to make his two younger daughters hide behind their mother and cry.

Donna decided then, as she pressed her cheek into her mother’s thigh, that she would never iron a man’s shirt. And even though she did everything else for Dr. Freeride she didn’t iron his clothes. She hasn’t ironed anything for her husband, either. Perhaps what she loves most about her husband that he has honestly never expected her to do his ironing. 

Her mother taught Donna how to boil the perfect egg. (The secret is the room temperature.)  No matter how often she asked, her mother never taught her to make zabaglione. Nerida told her to plant a lavender bush near her roses and never let a black cat cross her path. She told Donna that she looked terrible in yellow, and she was right. She never spoke about her own childhood. Nerida never said it, but Donna knew she’d always wanted a son.

She didn’t speak to Donna for three weeks when she discovered that Donna had left Dr. Freeride for the second time. Doctors and suburbs and school fundraisers was a world Nerida knew, and the reason she resented Donna’s job so much was because she couldn’t understand it. 

Nerida couldn’t understand the urgency, the hours, the constant travel and stress that ruled Donna’s life. She didn’t understand the complicated nature of government and administration. She certainly didn’t understand why Donna sacrificed her personal life for her job. It made Nerida angry - vocally angry - that her daughter had given up so much for her work and after a few years Donna stopped trying to explain the landscape of her life to her mother.

In her whole life, Nerida never voted in any election. Donna thinks about that every time she fills out a ballot.

The first three times Nerida met Josh she was rude to him, much to Josh’s confusion and Donna’s mortification. Josh tried everything: charm, humour, seriousness, questions and compliments. He even tried to be reflective and quiet during conversations that he didn’t seem egotistical. It only lasted about five minutes, but he tried and it was amusing. 

Donna probably should have known why it was so important to Josh that Nerida - and George - like him, but she figured it was just Josh refusing to accept that there were birds he couldn’t charm out of trees.

But the fourth time Josh met Nerida he made an offhand, casual comment about Donna’s astounding neatness and organization. Nerida sent him a box of home-baked biscotti three days later and a note telling him to let Donna go home earlier. Josh didn’t let her go home earlier, but he shared the biscotti with her over lunch. A week later, he bought her a beautiful cashmere scarf to say thank you for the extra hours she’d been putting in with the Budget.

Donna should have known why Josh really bought her the scarf, but she figured it was just Josh being spontaneously generous.

George Moss died of a heart attack in the sixth year of the Bartlet administration. He had been sick for some time so Donna wasn’t surprised by his death, but she was surprised at her sharp and overwhelming grief. Her father had been a distant figure all her life: a man who had travelled during her childhood, disciplined her during her adolescence and disapproved of her from the moment she drove to Manchester.

Oh, he was hard-working, dedicated, reliable and well-meaning. But there were very few moments when Donna really understood her father. She understood that he loved her and she loved him, and that was probably all there was to understand.

But Lucy called and told Donna in a trembling voice that he had died that morning at the breakfast table halfway through a sentence about orange juice, which nearly made Donna laugh. When she put the phone down, Donna had walked down the hall past CJ’s office, round the corner into the Communications bullpen and straight into the Roosevelt Room where Josh and Toby were meeting with a group of Senators about environmental initiatives.

"My father died," Donna said quickly and quietly.

Josh stood up and walked around the table. "What?"

"He was talking about orange juice," Donna added, and then she’d burst into tears and grabbed hold of Josh’s tie. Eventually, Josh had to take the tie off because Donna refused to let go.

 

Josh wanted to fly home with her, but Donna wouldn’t let him. Instead, Josh called her every two hours and sent beautiful flowers. He also let Donna take the tie with her. Donna went home and played with her nieces and nephews, slept in her old pink-quilted bed and wore the cashmere scarf to the funeral.

Nerida was matter-of-fact about the funeral, the burial, and her husband’s estate. She refused to move out of the family home, no matter how lonely and large it seemed. She changed the bed sheets the afternoon he died and the first thing Nerida bought with the money George bequeathed was a double-strand of raw pearls that she wore to church, to bridge games and even to the butchery.

The morning before Donna returned to Washington, Nerida ironed her husband’s shirts and took them to the local St. Vincent De Paul’s. She told Donna, as she ironed, that when they’d been courting, George had learnt the words to an Italian love song and serenaded Nerida on Valentine’s Day. The expression "courting" made Donna smile.

"His Italian was awful," Nerida smiled, "But my mother told me not to let him go. She was right."

"So you loved him?" Donna had asked, from the kitchen table.

Nerida had frowned. "Why would you ask that? I loved him very much. By the time you children were growing up, he wasn’t as passionate. Neither was I. But he used to give me flowers on your birthday. And Lucy and Ebony’s. He said I deserved a present too - for having you and raising you so well."

"I don’t remember that."

"Of course not. It was your birthday - you weren’t paying any attention to me."

"I should have."

"Why?" Nerida looked up and smiled again. "Your birthday was for you. You paid attention all the other days."

"What do you mean?" Donna asked.

"You were my girl who paid attention," Nerida said as she buttoned a shirt. "Ebony and Lucy always wanted something from me, were always asking for things and turning away. Not you, my little Donnatella. My curious little girl. You were always looking, always watching what I did. You were the one who realized I was Catholic. The one who looked when I drew things. The one who paid attention."

Donna was surprised. "I guess so."

"I know so." Nerida bent over to turn to unplug the iron. "There, that is another task done. I always tell you, Donnatella, that ironing takes…"

"Precision, patience and love," Donna recites. She stands and helps her mother pack the shirts in a box.

"Are you happy?" Nerida asked as she put the ironing board away.

Donna had frowned. "What?"

"You - are you happy? I think not. Oh, you like your job, but that’s not happiness. I think you have found the right man, but you are too afraid to let him hold you. You are afraid to let him love you." Nerida smiled when she saw the look on Donna’s face. "I’m old-fashioned, Donnatella. Not stupid."

"I don’t know what to do," Donna admitted.

"He cannot serenade you in Italian, no?" Nerida shook her head with amusement. "It would be funny to hear, but not romantic. But your man does speak your language."

"Josh is not…mine." Even denying it made Donna’s spine tingle.

Her mother laughed. "Oh no? You will know what to do if you stop listening with your head." Nerida touched her daughter’s hair. "Be the brave girl I know you are."

On the plane ride home, Donna wished she could have heard her father sing in Italian, just once.

Josh was waiting for her at the gate. He was wearing a brown coat and a red scarf and his hair was tousled. Donna found herself running towards him. When she reached him, she dropped her bag and threw her arms around him.

"Do you know my father serenaded my mother in Italian?" she said.

Josh smiled against her ear. "And she still married him?" And after a pause, "I don’t know any Italian, Donnatella."

"Neither do I." Donna realized being happy was this easy. "But tell me something…something I want to hear." She pulled back and looked in his eyes. "Serenade me, Josh."

Josh pulled her back into his body, tight enough to make her stomach hum. He wormed his hands beneath her coat until they rested over her hips and he tucked her head under his chin. They looked like thousands of other couples who greet each other in airports.

"CJ broke Toby’s favourite pen." He kissed her forehead. "We got our resolutions on the environment package through." He kissed her eyebrow. "Nobody knows where anything is when you’re gone." He kissed her nose. "I missed you." He kissed her on the mouth, lush and pulling. "I love you."

Josh took Donna back to his apartment and made love to her as slowly as any woman could have wished. In the morning, when Donna woke up she found Josh smiling at her from across the bed. Her breath smelt terrible but he kissed her anyway.

Nerida dressed Donna on her wedding-day and lent her youngest daughter her new pearl necklace. Nerida refused to give Donna away, claiming that it was a man’s job. Instead, Nerida cried noisily from the moment the President and Donna appeared at the church door and didn’t stop sobbing until Josh bent Donna across his arm and kissed her hard enough to make her toes curl.

At the reception, Nerida told the guests that she had never thought anybody would marry Donna. She told Toby that he should smile and asked CJ when she was going to settle down. Nerida flirted with Sam. She danced with Josh and told him that Donna was a sleep-talker. Josh had nodded gravely and pretended that he and Donna hadn’t been sleeping together for that past year. Nerida danced with the President and told him the secret to making perfect biscotti. She gave the First Lady advice on dealing with recalcitrant staff.

Nerida spoiled her grandchildren as shamefully as most grandmothers do, but took every opportunity to tell Donna why she wasn’t raising Ben and Olivia properly. She and Josh’s mother eventually became so friendly they took a holiday in Montreal together the year before Ben was born. Josh claimed it was a seventh sign of the Armageddon.

There are things Donna knows and feels about her mother that are less precise, less certain.

Nerida was smarter than she let on. Smarter than her husband. Smarter than many of the men who lived in their neighbourhood. She had more grace and style than the other women in their neighbourhood and she knew it and was never modest about it. She liked making the other women jealous. Something wild and unchecked hovered in an unconquered corner of Nerida - her cooking was part of that, but so was her rarely-aired temper. The tunes that Nerida hummed under her breath were opera arias, which Donna didn’t know until a music class in her sophomore year. 

Nerida did love her children differently. Ebony looked like her Nonna; Lucy was a brilliant cook; and Donna never knew what it was about her that Nerida loved, but she knew it was something to do with how passionately and fearlessly Donna argued with people. And something about the way that Donna paid attention.

Her mother knew that her daughters were faintly embarrassed by the way she dressed and talked, about how neat and ordered she was, how old-fashioned she seemed, but she never said a word.

Nerida was a calculating woman who could manipulate her husband and her children into anything. She loved autumn and had a scar from a wart above the third knuckle of her left hand. The skin of her stomach was soft and wrinkled from giving birth to three children.

She wanted more than she had, but she was too afraid to ask for it.

Nerida in fact asked for very little, which was why she expected so much from her children. She was a morass of contradictions because the person she was and the person she wanted to be could never be reconciled. She was a woman who became a mother, which is something Donna only understands now that she is a mother. Motherhood does not take you over - it simply jostles for space.

Nerida Moss died on a Tuesday afternoon, six days after Olivia’s third birthday, and four months before Josh and Donna’s third child, a girl, arrived.

Her mother’s death was as unexpected as all deaths, but Donna and her sisters had been talking about it for years, and their grief was strong but not heavy. They stood together at the funeral; Ebony with a scattering of grey in her hair, Lucy with fine wrinkles around her eyes, and Donna with shiny blonde hair and a swelling stomach. They stood with their backs perfectly straight and their earrings were subtle and delicate.

They cried later that night, over a bottle of red wine at Lucy’s house. At least, her sisters drank and cried. Their respective husbands and children were at Ebony’s house. Her sisters didn’t call their husbands, but Donna called hers. Josh answered his cell phone on the first ring and when he came to collect her, he didn’t say a word.

They went to a hotel room on the outskirts of the city and made love carefully. It wasn’t the sex Donna craved, it was the touch. Josh laid his head against the curve of her stomach and told Donna a story she hadn’t heard. The morning of Josh and Donna’s wedding, just before the ceremony Nerida had pulled Josh into a corner and asked him to answer a question.

"What three things make a marriage work?" Nerida asked.

Josh understood why the moment was important and thought carefully before he answered. "I’m not sure, but I’m willing to learn."

The answer had obviously satisfied Nerida, because she had kissed Josh and straightened his tie. 

Donna cried then, in a foreign hotel room, in a too-small bed, because she knew the answer.

In the morning, Josh and Donna drove back to Ebony’s house and found Olivia in the backyard building a fort with her cousins. Ben was in the kitchen, helping Lucy cook zabaglione.

When they returned to Washington, four days later, CJ met them at the airport and hugged Donna as tightly as you can hug a pregnant woman. After dinner, Olivia threw a tantrum about taking a bath and yelled at her mother. Donna yelled back. Donna almost never yelled at her children, and Olivia was so surprised she climbed into the bath and didn’t complain once when Donna washed her hair.

Three weeks later, Donna is in a meeting, listening to Toby and CJ have an argument they’ve already had four times that week. It requires no participation from her. In fact, it is the same argument they’ve been having for years and participation is ill-advised and often dangerous. The baby moves, turning restlessly, obviously trying to find a comfortable spot somewhere near Donna’s bladder.

She has thought about her mother’s death a lot and talked to Josh and CJ and her sisters about it. But the baby keeps on turning, and Donna pulls out her cell phone and rings Josh. She tells him to take the afternoon off and meet her and the children near the Reflecting Pool.

Donna walks out without saying anything to Toby or CJ or her secretary, and when she collects the children from school and pre-school, she holds them closer than usual. Ben, who is five, wriggles for a moment, but he is a perceptive child and holds still whilst Donna nudged his neck with her nose.

Donna wishes she could say she is a good mother. She is, in the ways that will matter five, ten, fifteen years from now. She is thoughtful and creative, inspirational and instructive, and she tries so hard to be fair it’s often ridiculous. At the moment though, she seems to hurtle from moment to moment with her children, trying desperately to create order and control. She thinks about how to be a better mother, how to balance everything in her life. She worries about it constantly.

She cannot cook like her mother, she will probably not be home in the afternoons to help her children with their homework, and she doesn’t iron Josh’s shirts. She wants her children to learn as quickly as she can teach them. Donna sometimes expects too much organization and maturity from her children, and there are days when they annoy her so much she can’t be in the same room as them without wanting to scream.

There are moments, too, when nothing else matters. When they wake up sleepy and warm and look for her. When they lean against her legs and hum mindlessly to themselves. When Ben screws up his nose to concentrate, or Olivia says, "Because the Democratic Party is always right" in order to win an argument about everything from bed-times to second helpings of ice-cream. 

Donna has realized being a mother does not make you perfectly tolerant and patient, or willing to sacrifice everything. It doesn’t stop you from wanting things for yourself. It doesn’t replace everything in your life and it shouldn’t. And all of these things have allowed her to see that her mother was the same.

When they arrive at the Pool, Josh has sandwiches for lunch and gingerbread men for the children. He bounces Olivia on his knee until she screams with delight. He reads "Max’s Christmas" to Ben - a book their son loves so much he carries it everywhere he goes. Josh has read the book nearly every day for two years, but the tone of his voice is still fresh and enthusiastic.

Olivia falls asleep in Donna’s lap, with her hand on the underside of her mother’s belly. Ben chases birds. Josh takes his tie off and lies down next to Donna.

"I just wanted the afternoon," Donna tells him.

"I know." Josh’s elbow rests against Donna’s hip and his fingers skim Olivia’s forehead. "Would you like to call her Nerida?"

Donna knows what he is talking about. "No. It’s the same as you feel about Joanie. I was thinking about Norah."

It takes Josh a second to understand. "After my father? That would be nice." He pauses. "Are we sure it’s a girl?"

"Pretty sure."

"Ben, don’t run so far away," Josh calls out to his son. "I like the name August."

"But she’ll be born in October," Donna reminds him.

"That makes it all the more amusing." Josh traces Olivia’s ear.

Donna rolls her eyes. "You don’t name your children to be amusing, Joshua."

"I know." Josh lifts his upper body. "Ben! Not so far!"

"Sorry, Daddy," Ben calls, moving closer to their blanket.

"What about Isabelle?" Donna suggests.

"It’s pretty," Josh agrees. "We could call her Bella."

"But we’ve already got Ben. Ben and Bella don’t sound right together." Donna shifts slightly so that Olivia’s head doesn’t press against her bladder.

"What about Naomi?" Josh offers. "She was a beloved mother-in-law."

Donna’s mouth softens. "You keep that sentimental streak very well hidden, Josh." She smiles, even though her eyes are slightly wet. "It’s a lovely name. Let’s put it at the top of the list."

Olivia stirs and opens her eyes. "Hey, Mommy," she says sleepily. She yawns. "Hey, Daddy."

Donna threads her fingers through Olivia’s hair, "Hello, darling."

Josh sits up. "Benjamin!" he yells. "I’m not going to tell you again. Don’t go so far."

Donna sits up and wraps her arms around Olivia. "He’s fine, Josh. We can still see him. And he can see us."

"He’s too far away," Josh disagrees.

Ben runs back towards their blanket and collapses in a heap at Josh’s feet. He has his father’s hair - curly and wild - but he has his mother’s large eyes.

Their son will not always return to them. One day he will run too far, he will run until he is alone, and Donna and Josh will not be able to call him back, or run after him. Olivia will do the same. And so will this unnamed girl, who already moves and turns when she chooses.

Olivia rubs her nose against Donna’s cheek.

Her mother told her it takes precision, patience and love to iron properly. Nerida taught Donna to smile when she met someone new; to never wear yellow; and she taught how to make her own self-raising flower. (Plain flour and baking soda.) 

"Let’s get an ice-cream," Donna suggests.

Olivia and Ben jump to their feet and grin because ice-cream is one of the magic words. Josh holds out his hand and hauls Donna to her feet. They pack up their things and walk towards the ice-cream van on the edge of the park.

Josh is suggesting more names - Lucy or Amanda or Eleanor - but Donna has a good feeling about the Naomi. It is a name for a dark-haired child, so Donna will wait and see what this baby looks like. Her husband now throws ridiculous names into the ring - Brunhilda, Eugenie, Thomasina. Donna tells him that she will ignore him until he starts talking sense.

"You’ll be waiting a while," Ben and Olivia chant in unison.

Josh and Donna smile at each other in delight. Their children really are miraculous.

Like all mothers, whether positively or negatively, Nerida taught her how to live: with precision, patience and love, of course. Patience and precision are meaningless unless you love what you do, unless you love who you do it with.

Ben and Olivia race ahead and Ben takes his sister’s hand and holds onto her tightly. But Donna can still see them, and if they turn around, they will be able to see her walking towards them, a tall blonde woman with a world of her own. A woman who is many things to many people. 

But Ben and Olivia will think absentmindedly - that is my mother.

And she is.

********

The End

Dedication: For my mother, of course. And for *my* Olivia: miraculous, magnificent and munificent.


End file.
